


Afghanistan Comes Home

by hjohn302



Series: In Between 'verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, Bromance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, How John got shot, Hurt/Comfort, Military Service, Past coming back to haunt, Sherlock learning empathy-a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-16
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-25 17:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/641191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hjohn302/pseuds/hjohn302
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Based on John's posture and reaction to what he read in the newspaper, it must be related to his military service. Based on his response to the phone call, it was a Bit Not Good."<br/>John hadn't talked for nearly two days, hardly ate, hadn't slept well since he got the phone call, and had been avoiding Sherlock. He wasn't fine.  Placement: about six weeks after Baskerville.  Nothing but friendship here. Rated for some descriptions of violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place a few months after The Hound of Baskerville. For anyone who may not have seen that one, this story has a focus on the after effects of Sherlock's attempt to drug John with a hallucinogenic drug to get him to see the "hound," to test the effects it would have on John mind, when Sherlock knew the effects he'd had from personal exposure to the drug.
> 
> John needs help to deal with his past suddenly brought to the present. Sherlock realizes how little he knows about John's past. He is the only person there, and the only one who sees John retreating from the world. But what is he, Sherlock Holmes of all people, going to be able to do to help? It requires sentiment.

* * *

Sherlock glanced up as a cup of tea appeared by his elbow. John set a plate of toast next to the tea with a slight smile and said "Morning."

Sherlock grunted, but reached gratefully for the tea, brewed perfectly as always. He straightened up and glanced out the window next to him noting that it was nearly nine in the morning. He had been at the table in the sitting room all night doing research and writing.

John settled in his chair with his own tea and toast, hiding a grin behind the newspaper as Sherlock paused and finished eating before going back to his work. Sherlock met the stifled chuckle with a "humph" of his own and immersed himself in his research again.

Sherlock's attention was pulled away from his writing about the importance of dust at a crime scene. He wasn't sure what disturbed his concentration. He closed his eyes to block out extra visual stimulus.

Seconds later, he opened his eyes. Turning he looked at John who had held his breath for 43 seconds. At the same moment, all movements had stopped and he had not turned a page or shifted his focus from one portion of the page. When John had started breathing again, one minute, twenty-two seconds ago, it was at an increased rate of speed and slightly irregular.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he saw John's left hand give a slight tremor then still itself. He noted John was also gripping the newspaper tightly enough that his knuckles were turning white.

A frown creased his forehead when John jumped as his phone rang next to him.

John dropped the paper, standing as he scrambled for his phone. His face paled as he glanced at the number. He swallowed hard and gathered himself before answering.

His voice clipped and formal, he said, "Watson." John paced to the window on the other side of the room from Sherlock.

"Yes," John replied in answer to a question. His voice faltered slightly as he said, "I just found out." He leaned his forehead against the cool glass, staring blindly down at the street. John briefly closed his eyes as the person continued to speak to him.

He glanced at Sherlock, suddenly aware of his stare. He shook his head slightly and attempted to give a reassuring smile before he left the sitting room and headed up to his room.

Sherlock glanced at the ceiling, hearing John pace from one side of his room to the other. The murmur of John's voice stopped. The pacing continued for a while longer then stopped as well and silence permeated the flat.

Sherlock found it extremely difficult to refocus his attention to the work in front of him. Huffing in frustration, he saved what he was doing and turned away from his laptop. Sherlock paced the sitting room several times. He threw himself down on the sofa, wondering what it was about his flatmate – friend – that distracted him so completely from his routine. Usually he didn't find himself at all disturbed when others around him became upset or dealt with difficulties. When it came to Mycroft, he was actually delighted.

If he didn't know himself better, he might think that he was actually worried about John. With a growl he ran his fingers through his hair. Jumping to his feet, Sherlock stepped up and over the coffee table and stalked to the corner behind his chair, picking up his violin from its corner. If anything could settle his racing mind…

Sherlock was just tuning his instrument when he heard John's door slam shut and his feet thud down the stairs. Half turning toward the door, he called, "Going out?"

"Yeah, for a bit, if you don't mind. Unless…. Do you need me for anything?" His voice tight with tension, John stuck his head in the door to look at Sherlock.

Tucking his violin under his chin he said, "No, not right now. I will text you if something comes up."

His face revealing nothing, John gave a curt nod and disappeared down the stairs.

Sherlock started to play, waiting for the thump of the front door. As the music filled the flat, he watched his friend stride down the street and around the corner. John's back was ramrod straight and his chin lifted.

_Hmm. Based on his posture and reaction to what he read in the newspaper, it must be related to his military service. Based on his response to the phone call, it was a Bit Not Good._

Sherlock briefly considered shadowing him, but dismissed the thought, trusting that John would tell him when he was ready. In the meantime, he could still do a little research from the flat.

 

* * *

Two days had passed, and Sherlock still didn't know what was bothering John.

John progressively retreated from the world as the hours ticked by, seeing things only he could see. Though he interacted with Sherlock, and even accompanied him to a crime scene (easily solved – the boss's ex-wife) his eyes were dark and distant. He spoke in a quiet monotone only when Sherlock asked him a direct question.

He had been extremely jumpy and it was obvious he wasn't sleeping well. Sherlock had confirmed it was related to his military service, and knew he had met with one of the men he had served with the previous day. But all his research turned up next to nothing on John's past, his family, or his military career.

When John came down from his room later in the evening, he walked absently into the kitchen and started the kettle for tea. Sherlock observed that he hadn't eaten dinner. Amend that. He hadn't eaten anything at all that day. Out of the corner of the eye, he could see John's face was blank as he stared at his hands braced on the counter waiting for the water to boil.

Sherlock stood and threw the book he was pretending to read into his chair. He stalked through the kitchen heading for his room. John jumped a little and turned to look up at him as he passed by. Sherlock glanced back over his shoulder and suppressed a shudder.

Those eyes that normally reflected light and life were vacant, the bright blue turned dull and glassy.

 

* * *

_To be continued..._


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

Slamming his door, Sherlock paced like a caged lion. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't stand seeing John so distant, so obviously hurting, but had no idea what to do or say. This is why he didn't like emotions, they clouded everything. Give him logic any day.

He shook his head, trying to figure out what to "do" about John. He needed to stop John from retreating any further.

How?

Sherlock knew about John. He knew his habits, the things he did and liked. He knew what John thought was a Bit Not Good, and what was definitely Not Good.

 _I'm learning more all the time,_ he thought wryly.

Sherlock groaned in frustration, stopped pacing and sat on the edge of his bed. He closed his eyes, took a calming breath, and prepared to enter his Mind Palace to pull up everything he knew about John.

Walking down the elegant marble hall, with a flick of his fingers he opened a door on the right and entered the room. He picked up a folder off the table. _Ok, let's go through the basics._

John had been an army doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan, a Captain. He had been shot in the left shoulder and had a psychosomatic limp. He had a sister, Harry, who was an alcoholic. No other close family. No friends nearby other than Mike Stamford, a friend from his University days, and those he had met through Sherlock. He had nightmares, mostly about his time in Afghanistan, though Sherlock suspected there were others.

Sherlock waved his fingers dismissing this and put down the folder. _Too obvious, all surface information. Need to dig deeper._

He went to a bookshelf across the room and started skimming through the books, looking at all he had observed and deduced, filing away for future reference.

John may look "ordinary," but that was what made him extraordinary.

John had an inner strength he drew on. He could hide in plain sight; he was an expert shot, steady under fire, ready for anything. He was extremely tolerant of Sherlock's idiosyncrasies. He seemed to understand Sherlock better than he did himself. He didn't move out when Sherlock experimented on him, even after Baskerville.

He stood up to Sherlock and told him in no uncertain terms what he thought. John had this way of catching Sherlock when he was in the middle of trampling over someone. He could stop Sherlock just by saying his name and giving him a _look_. That was something even Mycroft couldn't do.

John let his emotions get in the way. He moped for days when a girlfriend dumped him. He yelled at Sherlock in frustration or his sister, Harry, when she called him after she'd been drinking.

Although, there was one time he yelled at Anderson and Donovan. That time John stood up **_for_** Sherlock. He defended him. No one had seriously taken someone to task before, for how they treated him. Like Sherlock was worth defending. John was the first. He'd seemed oddly proud to do it, too, like it was an honor.

 _Interesting. I didn't delete that incident._ Sherlock made a note to come back to that later and continued moving through the room in his Mind Palace that had become dedicated to John.

For all the times Sherlock called John an idiot, he was far from that. He'd seen John make instant deductions when within his field of expertise. Working with the sick and injured, John was able to read their body language and symptoms, then diagnose the problem and efficiently begin treatment. He instinctively knew what to do when helping Sherlock interact with victims he needed information from.

 _This isn't giving me the information I need. John's room is still far too empty._ With another flick of his fingers, he left the room and his Mind Palace.

Flinging himself backwards onto his bed, he rubbed his face with his hands. He still didn't know what to do about the army doctor standing in their kitchen who obviously needed someone's help.

Sherlock pulled out his phone as it chimed with an incoming text.

**_You need to talk to John. MH_ **

_Really. What makes you say that, brother dear? SH_

**_Before the weekend. MH_ **

Sherlock glared at his phone. He hated when his brother knew more than he did. He heaved a sigh. He had no choice.

_Why, Mycroft? What is this weekend? SH_

**_You need to ask him about that. He is_ your _friend, after all. MH_**

Closing his eyes as he contemplated his next words, he groaned and swallowed his pride.

_How? What am I supposed to say? SH_

There was a long pause, during which Sherlock held his phone tightly as if it were a life line. Mentally, he ridiculed himself for asking his brother for advice. His brother, the man who said caring wasn't an advantage.

Finally, his phone chimed again.

**_Simple. Ask him WHAT'S WRONG. MH_ **

**_That should get you started. The rest is up to you, Sherlock. MH_ **

_Fine. SH_

_And Mycroft. Stop spying on us. SH_

Dropping his phone back into the pocket of his dressing gown, he rose from his bed and headed for the kitchen.

John was still there, leaning his back against the counter, holding a full cup of lukewarm tea. He was obviously miles away. He startled when Sherlock entered and loudly began to rummage through the refrigerator.

Sherlock called over his shoulder, "John, do you know where Mrs. Hudson put that soup she brought us?"

"Hum? Oh… soup. Um. Isn't it on the top shelf, next to the bowl of intestines?"

_That's the most I've heard him say in 48 hours._

"Oh. You want some?"

John wordlessly shook his head and suddenly pushed away from the counter. He moved around the table and toward the door to the landing.

Sherlock dropped the sham of looking for soup and swiftly blocked him. He silently took the cold tea cup from his hand. John stepped sideways to get around him, but Sherlock blocked him again.

When John tried to stare him down, he stared back impassively. John was only able to sustain the illusion of the "angry soldier" a few moments before he looked away in defeat. Sherlock felt an ache deep inside. He realized he would give anything to help John with whatever was eating him alive.

He looked at the top of his friend's head as he stared at the floor. Moving slowly, so as not to startle John too much, he reached out and took hold of him by the elbow. He steered him through the flat to the couch and made him sit down.

Ignoring John's look of surprise, he walked back to the kitchen to fill up two cups with fresh tea. Sherlock handed John's cup back to him, and noted that John gladly cradled the warm cup in his hands. Sherlock shut the door to the flat for privacy and sat down at the other end of the couch, angling himself toward John.

The flat was dark except for the lamp behind Sherlock's chair and the kitchen lights. He could see the firelight reflecting in John's eyes and wondered what he, Sherlock Holmes of all people, could do to bring back the inner fire he was used to observing there.

_a/n: Sorry all... left you hanging again on what is up with John. I promise it's coming in the next chapter! :)_

_Read and review please! :)_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you are folks. Now you finally get a bit of what is going on with John... more is coming! This is a bit longer one to tide you over.

John jumped when they both spoke at once, breaking the silence.

"John, I don't know wh…"

"Sherlock, please stop…"

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. "Fine, I will stop staring, if you start talking."

John didn't move, but Sherlock could see his hands tighten around the mug he was holding.

"John, what is wrong?" Sherlock questioned. He kept his voice gentle, but was determined to push through his own discomfort.

John shook his head slightly and shifted on the couch, moving to get up.

Sherlock leaned forward and stretched out his hand, his fingers hovering uncertainly, before gently laying them on John's shoulder.

John froze in place. Sherlock could feel the tension roll off him in waves as he tried to contain the emotions boiling just under the surface. Sherlock's hand dropped back to his lap when John leaned forward to set his mug on the coffee table.

John leaned his elbows on his knees, keeping his face averted. Sherlock sat and waited quietly.

"Sherlock," he growled, "stop whatever this… this experiment is. I am not something you can put under your microscope to figure out. You can't **_fix_** this. **_I_** can't fix this. What… What do you want?" John pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes.

"This isn't an experiment, I assure you. I don't _want_ anything from you. I want to _help_ you." Sherlock sighed, frustrated that this was so hard for him. He could read someone else's emotions, especially John's, but he didn't know how to respond to them.

"John, I don't know how to do this," he said, waving his long fingers vaguely between them.

John let out a shaky breath and leaned back. He turned to gaze at Sherlock.

Sherlock repressed a slight shudder at the emptiness and despair he saw in John. And fear? He knew he wasn't mistaken, it was just a moment, but it was there.

"You haven't talked for nearly two days, except when directly questioned. You haven't eaten today, you haven't slept well since you got that phone call, you jump at every unexpected noise, and you are obviously carrying your gun with you wherever you go, though you have been trying to hide it. I don't understand it and I don't like it.

"Do you want me to leave then?" John asked dully, unsure and going with the safest assumption.

Sherlock raked his hands through his dark curls as he exclaimed, "No, I don't want you to leave! You've been retreating for the past 48 hours. I can see you shutting yourself down, trying to protect yourself from something and It's. Not. Working."

John looked at him, as if seeing him for the first time in days. Emotions flitted across his face far too fast for even Sherlock to catch in the darkened room.

"You honestly want me to talk to you? I mean you want to know?" he said in surprise. Then so low that Sherlock barely caught it, "You… you won't… won't dismiss this?

John's voice became more intense, "I… this isn't easy, Sherlock. And after all… all that's happened, I can't… So please be sure you are prepared for…" His voice faded away again and he stuttered to a halt, dropping his head back down into his hands.

When he heard Sherlock stand and move away from him, he closed his eyes. _So. That was his answer then_. He swallowed hard as more pain blossomed inside. The wall of detachment he'd been trying to build for days crumbed as his stomach clenched and his eyes burned. He threaded his fingers through his sandy blonde hair and tugged, trying to exert some sort of control over his emotions.

Sherlock observed how John curled in on himself when he got up from the couch. He caught the slight hitch in John's breathing before he controlled it.

He mentally kicked himself.

 _Of course. What was John always saying to him? Timing, Sherlock, timing_.

John was misinterpreting his movements. He quickly took his mug and John's off the coffee table and set them on the desk. In two long strides he was back and sitting on it so he could face John.

John flinched when their knees brushed as Sherlock sat down. He glanced up quickly, the look in his eyes confirming what Sherlock deduced. John rubbed his face with his hands more to hide from Sherlock than anything else, steeling himself for Sherlock's next words.

"John. You expect me to leave. You didn't think I would even pursue the conversation this far, and now you believe I'm going to walk out and leave you alone."

Sherlock waited until John made eye contact with him again, then allowed his own mask to slip briefly as he said, "When I told you I only had one friend, I meant it. I don't have any experience of friendships to draw on. However I **_do_** know one friend doesn't leave another to suffer in silence."

John saw the sincerity in Sherlock's eyes; saw for just a moment what Sherlock normally kept so well hidden. His shoulders lost some of their tension. He took a deep, shuddering breath, attempting to regain his composure.

He closed his eyes, trying to convince himself he could trust Sherlock. Baskerville had shaken him, though he rationalized that Sherlock had no idea what he'd actually done. But he was still finding it difficult.

Sherlock could clearly see John's internal struggle. He just wanted John to start talking, but knew he couldn't push or John would never open up.

Unsure if he was doing the right thing, Sherlock said, "John?" holding himself very still.

When he heard the tentativeness in Sherlock's voice, John broke a bit and took a deep breath. He decided to try, hoping he wasn't going to regret this.

"The past six weeks have been extremely difficult. I've been having..." He paused, peering at Sherlock a moment to see if he was listening. He then looked around the room, anywhere but at Sherlock.

"I've been having- um- flashbacks. They had all but stopped just before I moved here. Since coming back from Dartmoor, since Baskerville, though..." He fought against the rising tide of panic.

Sherlock stiffened in alarm.

John tried to reassure him, "The week we came back was the worst, but you were involved in that case and didn't see much of me then. Then it got better. They were still there, but fewer and farther between. Very vivid though, and um, sometimes it takes a while to figure out what's real and what isn't."

"But since the… in the last forty eight hours, it's intensified again. I came downstairs tonight because I had one. I was at my desk. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor, curled up in the corner." His voice trembled as he tried to distance himself from what he'd endured for that hour all alone.

"I… the last time I tried to sleep, I had such a… a horrific… nightmare… I couldn't wake up, I couldn't make a noise…" John paled and shuddered violently at the memory.

He clenched his eyes shut, fighting against his demons as panic and fear threatened to drown him. It was taking every bit of strength he had left to keep from getting up and running out of the flat, out of the building, out into the night. Somewhere, anywhere but here. He was afraid that Sherlock would back off once he saw what a nutter he was. He couldn't face the judgment. The look that would be in his eyes, the pity.

 _You're trapped. You'll never get out. You're going to die. No one cares. No one is going to help you._ His mind chanted at him, turning on him and suddenly it was too much. Gasping for breath, he fought and struggled in utter terror, images overtaking his exhausted brain.

 

* * *

Sherlock knew that John was trying to minimize how bad the episodes were. How had he been so blind to what his friend had been going through? Were the vivid flashbacks a result of the drug they had been dosed with at Baskerville? Was his PTSD triggered to new heights from the one exposure?

These questions flew through his head at lightning speed as he reached out to grab John's wrist, checking his pulse, though he didn't need to. It was fluttering far too fast under his finger tips. He felt John shudder again as Sherlock moved back to the couch next to him.

"John, you're going to hyperventilate." Sherlock could see John was losing his battle against the panic and fear. He moved closer on the couch so he could reach John better. Not sure exactly what to do, he lightly clasped John's upper arms, squeezing slightly to try to get his attention. "John, listen to me. You need to calm down. Breathe. You're safe at Baker Street."

Sherlock kept talking to him while John started to struggle against his hands, fighting him off. Sherlock ducked a punch and knew he needed to switch tactics before John decided to use his gun against whatever kind of hell his mind was showing him.

He shifted quickly, pulling John's back against his chest, wrapping his arms around John to grab his wrists and hold them tight against John's chest. He didn't know what else to do but try and restrain him.

John fought furiously to free himself, causing Sherlock to wonder whether this was a good idea. Sherlock held on tightly, more to keep from getting decked than to keep John safe now. He was strangely thankful that John was on the wrong side of a hard couple of days. He didn't know if he would have been able to contain him otherwise.

"John! John, it's me, Sherlock! You're safe. Stop fighting me. Please. You're home and safe!"

Sherlock continued to talk to John and as he did, he felt him stop fighting and start to curl in on himself as he drew up his legs and dropped his head onto his knees. He could feel the tremors running through his friend's body, and knew John's breath was still coming far too fast and shallow.

"No. No! I can't… it can't – be happening… not again…" John's voice caught on something almost like a sob.

His voice continued so low Sherlock could barely make it out.

"Oh God! Where… they... I'm alone. Again..." John's voice trailed off with a small whimper.

Something twisted inside Sherlock at the anguish and brokenness in his friend's voice.

"It's all right, John. You're safe. You're NOT alone. I'm here and I'm not leaving. John… John, you're here on Baker Street."

Sherlock kept talking soothingly, and John slowly started to respond to his voice. As he did, Sherlock concentrated on getting him to match Sherlock's breathing pattern.

Sensing John was slowly coming back to himself, he loosened his grip on John's wrists, and eased back away from him a bit.

Sherlock knew that John would not be entirely comfortable with how they were sitting, even if he was attempting to comfort him. Continuing to talk to John, reminding him where he was, he shifted back so they were sitting side by side again, but he shifted his grip to hold John's hands tightly

Slowly, John eased back against the couch and dropped his head to lean against its back. He could feel Sherlock's hands holding his, anchoring him, and his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. As his panic subsided, he heard Sherlock's voice more clearly. He opened his eyes to see very concerned gray ones looking back at him.

 

* * *

_a/n: There you go... obviously there is a lot more to the story than John has said so far. Please read and review! :)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been doing research and am well aware that the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers no longer exists in that form. However I did as much research as I could and tried to keep it as realistic, while still staying within the canon from the show where John identifies himself as a Captain in the Fifth.

"John."

Sherlock's eyes were filled with worry.

_Filled with worry. Worry about me. That's a new one._

"John!"

Sherlock was talking to him, and as the rushing sound in his ears faded, he could hear his voice.

"John, are you all right?" Sherlock asked again, more insistently.

"I'm fine, Sherlock."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock looked at him doubtfully, still holding his hands. Very tightly.

"I'm… Yes. I'm fine. It's all fine."

John pulled his hands away from Sherlock's, never mind that he'd been gripping Sherlock's hands so tightly he might have left bruises. He quickly stood and turned his back to Sherlock, waiting for the dizziness to pass. He cleared his throat in embarrassment, angry with himself for showing such weakness. Hoping the routine would help, he headed to the kitchen to make some tea.

* * *

Sherlock let him go, watching him walk across the flat to the kitchen. He knew John was going for tea, and why, but observed with concern his shaking hands as he swiped at his eyes before he passed out of sight. He decided to give John a little space, but he wasn't going to let the conversation go.

How in the world had he missed the flashbacks, or at least missed the symptoms left behind? If they started again after Baskerville, did more happen there than he'd thought? He knew the possibility existed that the hallucinogenic drug could have caused John to see something other than the intended hound. But he was sure that John would have told him.

Unless.

Unless he'd broken John's trust too much by experimenting on him.

_Oh, of course._

John had trust issues. His trust had been betrayed multiple times in the past.

_Well really, all the evidence is there. Just look at his relationship with his sister._

Then he claimed John as his only friend, and took him back to Baskerville to purposely see what effect the drug had on his mind. Without telling him. No warning. No permission. As John would say that was a Bit Not Good.

_Correct that. Not Good at all. I should know better._

Now they were both paying the price. And John's price was higher by far.

_Moriarty was right, he had a heart._

And deep down it twisted as he realized what John was experiencing anew was triggered by a mistake he had made. He'd never even considered that John might still be plagued by PTSD.

Guilt. It had been a long time since he had felt or acknowledged that emotion. He decided he didn't like it, and it was to be avoided in the future. Especially with John.

Sherlock could hear the clattering of mugs and the pop as the kettle turned off. He knew he had just a few moments until John was done. He carefully put away the guilt to pull out and examine later. Now he needed to be alert and figure out how to help John.

But that was the mystery. He didn't know how! He nearly pulled his hair out in frustration, but composed himself as John walked back into the room.

* * *

John leaned against the counter, waiting for the kettle. He couldn't believe that he'd lost all control of himself. To have a panic attack was one thing, but to have it in front of Sherlock, who hated all outward expressions of emotions and saw them as a weakness… He berated himself for allowing just the **_memories_** of the flashbacks and dream to throw him that much.

Of course he knew Sherlock would know something was wrong. But, he hadn't thought he would pursue it as much as he had.

Had it been his imagination, or had Sherlock actually been _holding_ him in the middle of it? He shook his head. All he knew for sure was Sherlock had been clinging his hands rather tightly and had looked more than a little worried and out of his depth.

John shook his head, trying to clear it. Dwelling on what had just happened was not going to help him. He just needed some peace and quiet, and maybe, just maybe if he could manage to sleep tonight…

Despite wanting to detour the sitting room and head straight to his bedroom, he found himself fixing two cups of tea automatically. He stared at them on the counter. A debate raged within him, torn between escaping or facing his flatmate.

Working hard to regain his composure, John heaved a sigh, picked up the cups and carried them back to the couch.

He handed one to Sherlock without making eye contact, then walked to his arm chair near the fireplace and set his cup on the table next to it. He knelt down by the fire and stirred it up a bit, adding more fuel. He stayed near it, trying to dispel the cold that seemed to have settled in his bones.

* * *

Sherlock moved in the room behind him. He paused just behind John for a moment before turning to sit in his leather chair across from John's, without saying anything.

John stood up, leaning against the mantle, half turned toward Sherlock.

"How much do you know of my history, Sherlock?" he asked, still looking into the fire. "And when I say history, I don't mean what you can deduce, but what you really know."

Sherlock paused. He wasn't expecting that question. He wished he knew what John was thinking, but his face was unreadable. There were no clues he could read, no deductions he could make. He was in the dark. He did know if he didn't tell John everything, he would perceive it instantly.

"Two days after the cabbie incident, my dear brother, Mycroft came to me with a file," Sherlock admitted.

John snorted derisively, "Figures. Mine, of course."

Sherlock nodded slightly. "When I opened it, I identified school files and notes from teachers, as well as medical reports from childhood and up."

He noted that John stiffened imperceptibly, before he continued.

"There were also some military documents. I did not see their contents. I refused to look at them or read them. I just handed the whole file back. I also refused to listen to anything he had to say on the matter." Sherlock cleared his throat a bit. "There might have been some shouting." He paused again, and added, "I might have also kicked him out of the flat."

At that, John turned slightly toward him and Sherlock could read the surprise in his face, and maybe a touch of disbelief.

"You turned down background information that was available to you? Even when it was offered freely?"

It was Sherlock's turn to snort. "Nothing Mycroft offers is free. But, yes, I did. You had just killed someone to save my life. After knowing me less than two days. After being kidnapped by my brother. After running all over London in the middle of the night. After witnessing Lestrade orchestrate a fake drugs bust. That alone told me enough about you. I didn't want extra information from him. I surely didn't want any of it if it was tainted by his opinions."

Sherlock caught a glimpse of a faint smile on John's face as he turned and sat down in his chair across from him. "You kicked Mycroft out of the flat?"

"Yes. He was not amused." John actually chuckled at that.

They sat in silence, drinking their tea as John tried to gather his thoughts.

"Thank you," John said. When Sherlock looked at him in confusion he clarified. "First, for not looking at my file when you really could have. But also, for earlier."

Sherlock looked at him, his frown of confusion deepening.

John smiled gently and said quietly, "For staying around when my emotions… when I couldn't…" He waved his hand vaguely. "For, um well, for talking me down from that... You didn't need to. I mean I know it isn't something you are comfortable with."

"You're right. It's not something I'm… comfortable with," Sherlock stated. Then he gave one of his rare, genuine smiles. "You, however, seem to be the exception to almost every rule I've had."

John's answering smile showed him that he'd said the right thing.

The silence in the flat was broken by the gentle crackling of the fire and the muted sounds of cars on the street below. John let the silence wash over him. Having just shared that little bit with Sherlock had served to calm him down some. And he had to admit, as much as he wanted to soldier through this thing himself, having Sherlock there to talk him through the attack had made it of a much shorter duration than he had been experiencing.

He decided that for the moment, it wasn't important to know if Sherlock had been physically restraining him during his attack. He made a note though, to tell Sherlock it wasn't a good idea to touch him when he as having a nightmare or flashback. John could hurt him without meaning to.

The tea and the fire warmed him, as did Sherlock's willingness to wait until he was ready to talk. He hadn't missed that when Sherlock moved from the couch to his chair, he'd turned off his mobile phone and dropped it on his desk.

"I'm not quite sure where to start. You need to know some of at least my military history to even begin to understand the – flashbacks and nightmares... the fear. And the phone call." John stared pensively into the fire.

Sherlock curbed his tongue and waited for John to continue. He knew this wasn't easy for John based solely on the fact that John previously had never offered **_any_** information about his past.

"I started med school, because I knew it was the only thing I wanted to do, the only thing that I was good at. Just after entering, I was recruited by RAMC. After much discussion, I felt the army was a good fit as well. I think it was the combination of the structure of the army as well as the ability to use my medical skills to help treat and heal people that attracted me."

"I was still part of the RAMC, but was attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I stayed with them through multiple tours of duty, wherever we were needed. The most recent place being, obviously Afghanistan. Within the Fifth, I was trained as a sniper and became part of a special ops team."

"I wonder if some of those missions, the black ops, were in that file from Mycroft?"

John smiled to himself, thinking about Mycroft trying to find the details of some of his blacked out missions. He was pretty sure there were some things that even Mycroft couldn't access, even if he was the British government.

He glanced up at Sherlock, who was shifting around in his chair. He felt the best he had in two days, for the look on Sherlock's face was priceless. Had he known that he could so seriously surprise him, John would have done it a long time ago.


	5. Chapter 5

John gave a little smirk at the plain astonishment on Sherlock's face.

"I was on active duty for over ten years, Sherlock, and a lot of that time was in a combat zone of one type or another. My commanding officer saw my skills as a marksman, and I had already been working as a doctor under combat conditions, so he knew my value there as well."

"With his recommendation and backing, I was able to move into positions many medics and doctors would pass by."

Sherlock backtracked slightly, "How did he see your skills as a marksman?"

He didn't want to pass up this opportunity. Learning about his friend before he knew him was… fascinating.

"Sherlock…"

"Please?"

John glowered at Sherlock for a moment before he relented in the face of Sherlock's obvious eagerness to know more.

"Fine," He sighed. "We were in an area where more civilians were getting injured than any in our battalion. I went into a building to help evacuate it before it collapsed. As I was organizing triage in the middle of the street, I pulled members under my command to basically become triage nurses if they weren't needed for their guns. I turned to give someone an order when I saw something."

"What? What did you see?" pressed Sherlock.

* * *

_Captain John H. Watson had been trained for this. Command and lead, but also help and heal. His hands, arms and face were raw, stinging from the flames he ran through to rescue civilians from a burning building. He went in again when he heard someone cry out for help. Crouched over, he raced through the flames and the thick smoke engulfed him. He headed for the back of the building guided by another cut off scream. A man was half hanging out of a window halfway up the stairs. His leg was bleeding badly and he was barely conscious. John quickly slung him over his shoulders as he heard the building start to creak and groan. With a curse, he leaped down the short flight of stairs just before they collapsed. Dodging chunks of the ceiling that were coming down around him, he made for the door. Flames blocked him. Quickly he took the cloth from around his face and neck and wrapped it around the man's to protect him. Tucking his head he made for the door. He reached the fire at a dead run and burst out the door just as the building gave way._

_Lowering the man to the ground, he scanned the area looking at his options. They had minimal cover, but his men had gathered the injured into the best protection they had. They set up a perimeter, picking off the insurgents one by one._

_Choking on the dust and ignoring his own burns, he barked orders to the men around him, giving them supplies and telling them what to do. He had to stabilize the wounded as fast as he could so they could be lifted out. He went from person to person, checking them all, prioritizing them. He came to a young boy who had shrapnel tear through his side. John checked him over and could tell it had missed vital organs. He snapped on clean gloves and moved quickly, automatically ducking as bullets whizzed by, not faltering in his work. As his hands deftly slowed the bleeding and packed the wound, he murmured quiet words of encouragement in Dari._

_He turned to call Murray over to help him when he caught a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision._

_This was another thing he had been trained for. He knew the difference between the movement of friend and foe. He knew what to look for when surrounded by his comrades. Don't look at the familiar. Don't look for what you think a sniper should look like, but the slightly out of place. Not changing his movements, but just his body position slightly as he reached for something, he could see someone… no two people in the shadows. His eyes widened slightly. It looked like someone was hooking wires up to something he was wearing. Suicide bomber? The other looked like he was holding a high powered rifle._

_His eyes were stinging from the dust and smoke. Sand gritted between his teeth and he could almost taste the blood of the young boy in front of him. Quickly he skimmed the area around him, his eyes lit up as he saw a sniper rifle someone had lost when they were injured. He knew he only had seconds. Not enough time to alert anyone who could get into position. His heart sped up (if that were possible) knowing he was the closest. Making sure the boy wouldn't bleed out he made a split second decision._

_He dove over the boy, grabbing the rifle and took cover behind a burned out Jeep. He checked the gun for ammo and eased into a position to fire. Through the scope he could see the men. He took a second to make sure he was right about their identity. Taking a breath, he released it slowly. As he did, he gently squeezed the trigger. Once. Twice._

_As soon as he was sure the men were down, he turned, pulled on a new set of gloves and continued to work and give orders until reinforcements arrived._

* * *

John snapped out of the memories. The sounds of gunfire faded to the faint crackling coming from the fireplace. The heat of the desert became a distant memory again in the cool of the flat.

He could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him. Something sparkled in those gray eyes, some emotion he couldn't define as they peered at him over the rim of his cup.

"Several men and officers reported what happened to my CO. It seems, in the end it was two kill shots from just over 750 feet. Not long after that he sent me to train with a sniper unit. We trained in teams of two, a spotter and a sniper. Turns out, I was pretty good."

Sherlock gave an amazed laugh. "750 feet is more than pretty good, John."

John smiled, embarrassed and pleased at the rare compliment.

John shook his head, "It was strange. Here I was, a doctor trained to heal and save lives. At the same time I was a damn good sniper."

"As you know already," he said, glancing at Sherlock, "I found a rush in both of those things. The challenge of keeping someone alive by working against the clock to stop the blood, to heal – but there was also the challenge of keeping people alive by taking out enemies, picking them off one by one so they couldn't hurt anyone else."

"I was somehow able to balance the two, though they seem such opposites."

Sherlock knew John was a very good doctor, and a crack shot. He had still - How had John managed to slip so much under Sherlock's radar? He _lived_ with the man. He should have seen this!

John continued, "Special ops wanted a doctor. I volunteered. The first time I rolled with that team, I knew had to prove myself to be able to stay with them. When I connected with them, I had a week before we were being sent out on a mission. I had to work hard both mentally and physically. I am a quick study and with my background of martial arts plus the sniper unit, I was able to keep up with them. When we got back, I went through some extremely intensive training."

"My commander was surprised at my sniper skills and impressed with my skills as a doctor."

"Though," he said as an afterthought, "Those weren't really tested until we were out on our second mission." John paused, "I think they underestimated me. It didn't happen again."

* * *

 

_To be continued….  Please Read and Review!_


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

 

Sherlock pondered their conversation as John clattered down the stairs to pay for their take-away order. The way John described his experiences made it easy for Sherlock's mind to fill in any gaps. He could smell the smoke, hear the screams, feel the heat of explosions, and somehow, see what John saw. He was quite a story teller. Maybe that was one of the reasons John's blog was so popular after all.

It explained a lot of what he'd observed in John. He filed it all away in John's room in his Mind Palace. John had showed a bit of anxiety as he shared, but mostly embarrassment at Sherlock's praise. It was clear John hadn't shared everything yet.

He knew he only had been told a small portion of what John had gone through, but he could understand how it would be fuel for the fires of nightmarish dreams for years.

After dishing up their curry, they settled back in their chairs by the fire.

As Sherlock ate, he kept an eye on John. He could see John was clearly thinking about his experiences in Afghanistan. He pretended to eat, but mostly pushed it around his plate.

When Sherlock had eaten all he was going to, he moved to set his plate aside. John looked between him and his plate accusingly. Sherlock just looked back at him and his plate pointedly. John's face flushed slightly and he quickly looked away.

He made a move to get up with his plate, when Sherlock reached over and took it out of his hand. He walked into the kitchen, putting things away, hearing John sigh as he settled back into his chair.

He glanced over, seeing John rest his head against the back of his chair as he stared into the fire. He could see the stress and exhaustion in the set of John's shoulders. He could also see determination. He knew John well enough to know that he was going to push through this now that he'd started. Somehow he knew the most difficult part of their night was yet to come.

* * *

John finally stirred, then stood and stretched a bit. "Do we still have the newspaper from the other day, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stiffened as he finished putting the food away in the kitchen. "Yes. It's on my desk," he said with a sigh.

"You've been looking through it, haven't you?" John grabbed it and glanced up from it as he walked back to his chair.

Sherlock ducked his head, "Hummm."

"Sherlock…"

"Yes. All right, I have been searching it."

"And?"

"I found several articles on Afghanistan, but even 'borrowing' Mycroft's security clearance codes, I couldn't find anything about any of the people mentioned in any of the articles." Sherlock huffed in frustration.

John giggled. It might have been a little bit high pitched with stress, but he actually giggled and threw himself into his chair.

Despite himself, Sherlock lips quirked in a smile.

"So, what did I miss?" he asked, as he walked over to his chair, not bothering to hide his amusement at John's smugness that he knew something Sherlock didn't.

It didn't go unnoticed by either of them that circumstances were flipped. Usually it was John or Detective Inspector Lestrade asking that question of Sherlock. They exchanged a glance at the irony, though Sherlock was still embarrassed that he couldn't figure something out.

"We'll get to the paper," promised John. He opened it to the right page, and then folded it over and laid it down on the table next to him.

* * *

"When you are thrown together with a bunch of soldiers, living in close quarters, eating, sleeping, working, and fighting together, you get to know each other well. That's kind of what the commanders want. We need to be close, know how each of us reacts to stressful situations, and to have each others back."

"Sometimes it takes a little shuffling to get the right people in the right places, so that the team gels and work together. I was expecting that the first special ops team I was assigned to might not be the one I actually landed in permanently. I was wrong. I never had to switch teams."

"We were two days back from that first mission. What had started as a training session in hand to hand with my team members evolved into a sparring match between our team and another ops team. We were coming out evenly matched, so they picked out the two doctors to settle it."

Sherlock grinned. He would have loved to see that match up. He'd seen John in a couple of fights when subduing criminals. They never lasted long.

"The other doctor was good. Very good. We were sparring in a ring made up of our two special ops teams, and quickly drew a crowd. It was more than a little aggressive. In the end I was throwing in every skill I knew, from martial arts, to wrestling, to boxing and more. Suffice it to say, we came away with more than a few bruises."

"Who won?" asked Sherlock.

John gave him a withering look. "Really Sherlock? You have to ask?"

Sherlock laughed, "Well you did say he was good. Very Good."

"So I did. Well, I finally was able to flip him and keep him down for the count… without disabling him _too_ much. I was just getting up and shaking hands when I heard my name shouted over the cheering of my team. Someone handed me my shirt, and as I pulled it on, someone threw their rucksack at me and hollered, 'Hey, Watson, show me where a guy can get a kip, I'm shattered!' I would have known that voice anywhere."

"Who was it?" Sherlock asked.

A look of fondness softened the features of John's face.

"Bill Murray. He'd been a medic I trained with back when I was still in the UK. During that we became good friends. He shipped out shortly after I did. We reconnected after he got attached to the Fifth, and when I was sent to special ops, he requested to be trained as a sniper as well. As he was an excellent shot, they agreed. They assigned him to my special ops unit, and he and I paired up and cross trained, as a sniper and spotter. Keeping the two of us together only made sense. We worked better together, were able to read each other and were much more successful."

"Hm. Sounds familiar," Sherlock said pointedly, looking at John and thinking about all their cases, and all the times in between when they didn't seem to need to say a word for the other to understand.

John smiled knowingly and nodded as he continued. "So our team was complete. Not only did our team gain a doctor and medic, but they also gained two cross trained snipers. It seems that is exactly what our CO wanted."

Sherlock leaned forward, perched on his chair, as John continued to talk. John allowed himself to be distracted temporarily and shared other stories of poker games, battles, make-shift field hospitals, guitar music floating though the night air, the heat, the dust, and the crazy, barren, beautiful Afghanistan.

* * *

John smiled to himself at Sherlock's interest, but he could feel his anxiety rising as he neared the story that kept plaguing him night and day. John swallowed hard.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, resting his chin on his fingers. He may have appeared relaxed, but he was as tight as a coiled spring, feeding off John's tension.

"We were moving into an area that had just been cleared of insurgents. To keep moving ahead, they wanted us to set up a base in the town there, where we could have a front line triage area, treat the locals, and have a jumping off place for recon and covert operations."

"We had done this numerous times. We knew what we were getting into, knew that the area may appear secure, but you never get all of them the first time. Earlier on, we took some pretty bad hits while securing a village, so the possibility of it going wrong was always there."

"Heading down the road we had our vehicles, not too closely grouped in case of attack. I was riding in a group of four vehicles, leading out the whole caravan. And all hell broke loose."

John started trembling again at the memory and had to get up to pace the room.

Sherlock turned to keep an eye on John as he paced between his chair and the couch, to the window and back again. He was running his left hand through his hair, in an attempt to hide its tremor. He also was limping slightly.

_Limping? Oh. Oh… this has to be when he was shot._

It was Sherlock's turn to swallow hard. He didn't know if he could manage hearing about how John got shot. It was one thing to talk about it generally, but to hear the details, that was different. It was different than a crime scene and seeing a victim, or hearing a witness describe what happened.

This was about John.

_This isn't just **about** John, this **is** John. I won't back out now. I can't. He needs me._

"John?"

John looked up at Sherlock's voice. His eyes were dark and disturbed and his face pale and drawn tight with pain. "If you want me to stop, I will, Sherlock… I can. You..."

Sherlock interrupted him. "John, I am not going away. I'm here to listen. I… I just, um, are you all right?" he finished weakly, not knowing how to say what he wanted.

John smiled sadly and just turned back to look out the window.

* * *

_a/n: Evil cliffhanger. Bad, bad cliffhanger!_

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

 

John started to speak so quietly, Sherlock had to strain to hear him.

"When I say all hell broke loose…"

_John was sitting between Jamison and Williams. Thomas and Stevens were in the front. There was a deafening explosion as the first truck in their group went up in flames. Multiple explosions went off right around them. The next thing he knew, Williams was lying across him, pinning him. He tried to get him to come round, to shift him, when he realized he was covered in blood and it wasn't his._

_The vehicle was on its side, Jamison was nowhere to be seen, and when he moved to check Williams' pulse…_

" _Oh bloody... Damn! Williams..." Shrapnel had torn through Williams neck where the vest hadn't protected him. He hadn't had a chance._

_John shifted him enough to reach and check on Thomas and Stevens. They were both wounded, but still alive. He climbed out the top (side) of the vehicle with his gun and med bag. He couldn't get them out without help._

_Ducking for cover, he ran ahead to the jeep ahead of them. Murray had been in it. Shouting his name, he ran forward, seeing it on fire. Suddenly tackled from behind, he flipped over and saw Murray and Roberts taking cover in a small hollow. They looked a little worse for wear. They had been thrown clear when their vehicle flipped after being hit. The rest of the survivors of their jeep were digging in against the threat of the oncoming insurgents._

_Staying low to the ground, they raced back to John's vehicle and helped drag Thomas and Stevens out. They got them around the other side of it, as a hail of bullets flew past their heads. They could hear artillery shells, and the other vehicles in the convoy were grouping around them, giving them cover and backup against the insurgents that had taken out their section with antipersonnel IED's._

_As Murray checked over Thomas and Stevens, John was pulled over to another kid. Working quickly he stemmed the flow of blood, yelling for a stretcher. John overheard someone say that their position had been called in and reinforcements were on the way. He hoped it wasn't going to be too late. Men, kids really, were dropping like flies around him. He and Murray were working as fast as they could. Finally, other medics found them and rushed to help. Boys were getting sorted out in a makeshift shelter between two armored personnel carriers._

" _ETA on those helicopters?" John shouted. Murray relayed back, "Five minutes, John. We gotta get them 5 minutes." He nodded his understanding and kept working, trying to pry a bullet out of someone's thigh._

_He leaned over another kid, yanking a soldier over to hold him down. "Put pressure here. Hard." He gave the kid a shot of morphine, and wrapped his arm tightly. The bullet had gone through, all he could do under these conditions was keep him from bleeding out until they got him to the field hospital. Shooting antibiotics into his arm, he started to move to the next kid when he instinctively ducked._

_He looked up and saw the soldier who'd been helping him, shot right through his body armor, eyes glassy._

" _Shit! Murray, sniper!" Murray looked around and seeing several more rounds come in, knew that at least two or three snipers had flanked them in the attack._

_John glanced at the injured, seeing most of them either waiting for the choppers or being treated. He glanced at Murray and they made the decision together._

" _Captain Evans," John grabbed another doctor's shoulder, "Take over here. We have a sniper problem that is going to rapidly get worse. Murray and I have it. Get it called in." Evans nodded his understanding, turned away and started giving orders._

* * *

John closed his eyes, leaning his head against the window. He opened them rapidly though, as too many images flooded his mind. He turned quickly to look around the room, to ground himself in reality, when he jumped at finding Sherlock within arm's reach from him.

"Jeez, Sherlock! You can't sneak up on me like that. You're going to get yourself killed."

"John, I have the utmost confidence you would not kill me," stated Sherlock gravely.

"Sherlock, I have been dealing with sodding PTSD since I came back from Dartmoor. I know what I am capable of. I have been _trained_ to act on instinct. If you sneak up on me or touch me, you are liable to get yourself shot, or severely injured if I physically attack you, before I would even realize what I was doing!"

John groaned, "Half the time, in the midst of it, I can't tell what is real and what isn't. My mind throws up all sorts of images… I can't control it… the fear… and if I hurt you…" His mind shied away from the thought of what he could do if he didn't recognize Sherlock in time. "I know you understand what I mean," he finished pointedly.

They both remembered that night around the fire in Dartmoor and Sherlock's reaction to overwhelming fear.

John continued, deadly serious. "You can talk to me loudly, and eventually I should respond to your voice. But no sudden moves, no touching me, and no loud noises."

Sherlock looked at him a bit shamefaced.

"What? What did you do?" John asked with a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"I didn't… umm… know what to do when you were panicking before. Trying to hold your arms didn't work, so I sat behind you and held you, I mean, restrained you." He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Did I hurt you, Sherlock?" John looked at him with a dawning horror, as he started remembering fighting an unseen assailant.

Sherlock dropped his hand when he realized he was unconsciously rubbing his shoulder. John's eyes followed his hand then narrowed as he glared at him.

"Show me," demanded John, going into doctor mode.

"John, it's nothing, just a bruise," stated Sherlock.

"Show me." Though John more insistent this time, there was a hint of pleading in his voice.

"No." Sherlock stood his ground with a defiant stare. "You hit your head back against me a couple of times. You had a rough couple of days. I was able to contain you so you didn't hurt yourself. I am fine. It's all fine."

They glared at each other for a minute before John said, "If you have a cracked collarbone, it's not my fault."

"…"

John heard the surprising sound of Sherlock's chuckle. He replayed his last sentence in his head. He dared a glance at Sherlock's face and the two of them dissolved into laughter.

* * *

A few minutes later, still wiping tears from their eyes, they collapsed on either end of the sofa to catch their breath.

"Unbelievable," huffed John as he recovered, shaking his head.

"What?" questioned Sherlock.

"That I did that to you," he said, indicating Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm your doctor and I'm the one who hurt you." A wave of guilt and shame washed over him.

"John, first you didn't know what you were doing. Second, it's my own fault because I didn't think…" Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eyes, daring him to comment, "...I didn't think it would be a bad thing to try to comfort you. Third, I said before. I. Am. Fine."

"I should have warned you earlier," admitted John

_I would have never thought that Sherlock would try to comfort me. Especially with something as emotional as this. Before Baskerville, I thought we were friends, then I thought I was just another person to experiment on, but now, maybe we can get back to something a bit more normal. Well, at least as "normal" as a friendship with Sherlock is going to get…_

Sherlock had a good idea of what John was thinking. His face was so easy to read sometimes. They were skirting talking about Baskerville, and they both knew it.

Sherlock decided to leave it for the moment. There were more important things to deal with right now.

"Well, it isn't nearly as bad as it would have been if I hadn't ducked that punch. You do throw a very mean right hook," Sherlock said with a small smile.

John mock groaned, as he buried his face in his hands. "I tried to punch you?"

Sherlock chucked a bit. "Oh yes. It was quite, ah, entertaining."

Unable to help himself, John flashed a grin at Sherlock, giving a little huff of a laugh shaking his head at him.

Sherlock was relieved he was able to say the right thing to reduce the tension in the room and make John laugh.

Sherlock positioned himself at the end of the couch to face John slightly. "Do you think you are ready... umm, able... to continue?"

Unconsciously mirroring Sherlock's position, John took a deep breath and nodded.

Lacing his hands together in his lap to keep them from shaking, he said, "Ok, so with the other doctors and medics from the other special ops teams taking over, Murray and I were temporarily freed up to grab our sniper rifles. We had to take out as many of the snipers as possible. With choppers incoming, they would concentrate on the crews, as well as any of the wounded being moved onto them."

"We knew they were using armor piercing rounds, as they had penetrated that soldier's body armor. We had to take them out and quickly before more people got hit."

* * *

_Ducking low, he and Murray ran alongside one of the vehicles nearby for cover then ran forward to a low rise offering minimal protection. They fell face first to the ground as sand sprayed up from a peppering of bullets. They looked at each other exchanging glances and quick smiles. Side by side they brought up their guns, scanning the nearby outcroppings for the snipers._

" _Found one!" John called over the explosions, ignoring the pain in his right leg. Almost at the same moment Murray said the same._

_Without another word, they took a count of three and fired simultaneously._

" _Dead on."_

" _Same here."_

_A bullet skimmed off the top of the rise, just above their heads._

" _Damn, there's another up there!" cried Murray._

_If they tried to move with that sniper still on them, they were dead. As it was, they didn't have long if they couldn't get him._

_John looked through his scope again searching along the sight line of the shot fired at them. Gotcha. He raised his rifle to aim and felt Murray shift beside him. He heard him call that he found a fourth. John didn't dare nod. He squeezed off his shot, seeing he got him, when he felt something jerk him back by the shoulder. A split second later pain started blossoming from his shoulder, spreading through his chest and arm like a wildfire._

_He heard Murray get off his shot and say in the distance, "That's all of them John, come on, let's get back. Choppers incoming."_

_He grunted, and managed to sling his rifle over his good shoulder. He struggled to his feet, keeping his left arm tucked against his body. Every step sent lightening bolts of pain through him as his shoulder jostled. He was glad Murray was ahead of him, because he didn't think he could mask the pain very well._

_Murray dropped to his knees in front of a kid with an abdominal wound. John dropped beside him, letting his rifle fall to the ground next to his med kit. He leaned over the kid to see what they could do, and almost pitched over right on top of him._

_Murray grabbed him by the shoulder to steady him and he bit back a scream as he fell to his side._

" _John! Shit, I didn't know you were hit. Damn it, you should have said something!" Murray dug through his bag for pressure bandages. He quickly pressed one to the wound and strapped it down._

_John's hands scrabbled at the sand, trying to stay still. His head wrenched back and he ground his teeth trying to keep from crying out._

" _Collarbone….. broken." He gasped through the pain. Murray nodded mutely at him, pressing down with another bandage as the first one soaked through almost immediately._

" _We gotta get you out of here, John. Hang with me, mate. Captain Evans! Over here, sir! Captain Watson's been hit!"_

_Evans came at a run, skidding to a halt next to him._

" _Morphine?" he asked._

" _Out," said Murray, looking at John who shook his head, then grimaced as the pain increased._

" _Antibiotics?"_

" _Used the last," ground out John, barely enough to be heard over the war still going on over their heads._

" _What the hell happened to your leg, John?" Murray cried, as he moved back slightly to let Evans in to inspect his shoulder._

" _Truck hit… shrapnel… Williams' body…. Saved me from worst…." John's voice failed as his muscles clenched against the pain and wrenched a scream from him before he could stop it._

" _Shit. You've been running on this the whole time? You damn fool! This should have taken you down right away, mate!"_

_John grinned weakly at Murray as he wrapped more bandages around his leg to stop the bleeding. "Didn't really feel it till now… hurts!" He closed his eyes and panted, straining to stay conscious._

_He heard from a distance, "Get a stretcher over here, NOW! He's lost too much blood" Then closer, "John. John!"_

_He heard himself groan in agony. "Please God, let me live!" he rasped._

" _John! Stop that, you sodding fool. Look at me, John!"_

_He cracked his eyes open to see Murray's face close to his, lined with worry. "Don't you dare give up on me now, John Watson. When I get back to the field hospital, I swear, I'm gonna beat some sense into that sorry head of yours!"_

" _Yes sir," he whispered before his eyes rolled back in his head and he finally passed out._

* * *

"They did surgery on my shoulder, twice. Once to initially pull out fragments and repair it. The second time was to cut out the infection."

"From the lack of antibiotics," Sherlock surmised. "You had enteric fever, did you not? It took you a while to recover before they could even send you home."

John nodded wearily. "Almost died from the strain the blood loss and the fever put on my heart." John rubbed his left shoulder as if to work out a deep ache. "They had to use the defibrillator to restart it. I don't really remember much though, from then. I remember seeing Murray's face in and out, and then I woke up, deep in a safe zone and already on my way home."

"They pulled most of the shrapnel out of my leg and put everything back together. But my knee has never been the same. It's usually worse with the weather change, but it's manageable unless I'm really tired."

Leaning back against the couch, he realized that the two of them must have moved toward each other when he was lost in his memories, because his friend was almost touching him. John was close enough to see exactly when it clicked.

"Hm. Wondered when you were going to get there," John said with a bare hint of a smile in his voice.

"You said your limp was psychosomatic!" Sherlock exclaimed, outraged that John had deceived him.

"Did I now? Are you sure?" asked John smugly. The knowledge that he'd been able to hide something from Sherlock was enough to overcome his complete exhaustion.

* * *

_a/n: Hope the wait was worth it! Let me know if there are any glaring problems and I will go back and fix it!_

_Blessing and read and review! :)_


	8. Chapter 8

"Think back, Sherlock. You deduced that my therapist thought I had a psychosomatic limp ' _quite correctly, I'm afraid_ ' were your words."

John continued. "After I shot the cabbie and we were walking away from your brother, do you remember the conversation?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock said indignantly.

 

**" _You did get shot though."_**

" _Sorry?"_

**" _In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."_**

" _Oh! Yeah, shoulder."_

**" _Shoulder! I thought so."_**

" _No you didn't."_

**" _The left one."_**

" _Lucky guess."_

**" _I never guess._**

" _Yes you do."_

John smiled as Sherlock repeated their conversation word for word.

"And we left it at that. You never asked anything more about my leg, assuming it was _completely_ psychosomatic. In reality it was only partially psychosomatic. I really did injure my leg as well," John smiled again at the look of frustration on Sherlock's face

"How did I not see you ever even favoring your leg?"

"Sherlock, are you asking me to lay it all out for you?" questioned John. Receiving a mock glare in return, he closed his eyes, resting his head fully against the back of the couch.

"When the weather changes, especially when it gets cold and wet, I am prepared with pain medication. I usually end up leaving the cab last and paying, so I am behind you on the stairs. Being behind you, all I have to do is concentrate on not limping, not controlling my facial expressions."

As John stopped talking, Sherlock ran it through in his head, and realized those night (or mornings) they dragged in after a late case, John would sometimes head straight up the next flight of stairs to his room. Going slowly enough that Sherlock just thought he was exhausted. He had caught him rubbing his upper leg, but had again assumed it was from stress or dreams of the war. There were very few times that John lagged behind in a chase, and as he thought about it, those were times when the weather was turning.

He felt a shift in weight on the couch next to him and looked over, just as John started to tip over, sound asleep. He got up and eased John down with his head on a pillow, and gently swung his feet up onto the couch.

Covering John with a blanket, Sherlock stood and looked at him for a few moments. This was the most peaceful John had looked in days.

Sherlock walked to the fire, stirred it up, then sat down in his chair. He settled in to think over and file away all he'd learned about John, and to keep watch over him as he slept.

* * *

John woke with a shout, shaking and sweating. Sherlock was already by his side, calling his name. Not daring to touch John, his arms hung loosely at his sides. His fingers were twitching with the desire to _do_ something, anything.

Sherlock helplessly watched him struggle back to reality. John jumped as Sherlock said his name gently, one more time.

"Sher… Sherlock?" John's voice was a bare whisper as he fought through his fear.

"I'm here," Sherlock said, gently placing a hand on John's shoulder.

When John instinctively leaned into his touch, he wrapped his other arm around John's back, carefully placing his other hand on John's left shoulder, mindful that it was his bad one.

John rested his weight against Sherlock as the adrenaline raced through his system. Sherlock could feel the tremors running though John's compact frame as he drew his knees up to his chest, clasping his arms around them. His head dropped down against his knees while he tried to catch his breath.

Sherlock gazed at his friend, aware that it suspiciously looked like he was giving John a hug. He felt slightly awkward, but determined this was the correct thing to do, given the circumstances. As John was still recovering from his nightmare, and Sherlock seemed to be supporting a considerable portion of his weight, he decided John must feel it was acceptable too.

He also was aware of the tears John was hiding from him. As John gasped for breath, his whole body shuddered. Sherlock realized suddenly that John was actually crying. The tears he had seen weren't left over from the dream. He was trying to disguise it, but he was crying.

_What am I supposed to do? Crying? John doesn't cry!_

_Obviously he does,_ his mind helpfully corrected.

_I don't like seeing John this… this… like this._

Sherlock gently tightened his grip around John's shoulders. At first he thought he'd done something wrong. John tensed momentarily, but then the… the… crying, seemed to get worse.

It took a moment before it dawned on him that John didn't get worse, he just stopped trying to _hide_ the fact that he was crying.

"Sorry" John gasped through his tears, a few minutes later.

"I don't… I don't know what… I can't…."

"It's… it's all right, John. You're safe. It's all going to be fine." Sherlock replied, not attempting to hide the concern in his voice. What was the point? Even when distraught, John could read him pretty well.

With that thought came another one. John wasn't nearly as unobservant as he accused him of being. He just chose what he was going to observe. One of those things must be Sherlock, himself. Shaking his head, he filed that thought away for further study, as well.

He felt John reaching for his shattered control, starting to draw away from him. Sherlock gave one more gentle squeeze, and John responded by leaning gratefully against him for another moment. Then he heaved a shaky sigh and started to straighten up.

Sherlock slowly backed up until he was sure John was going to stay upright. He got to his feet, and knowing John needed a little space to compose himself, he walked quietly into the kitchen, making tea and some toast. Knowing John wouldn't eat without him, he made enough for two and brought it back into the sitting room. Setting the tea and toast on the coffee table, he turned a desk chair around to face the couch and settled down, with his tea in hand.

John held his mug close to his face, relishing the warmth as he tried to still the shaking in his hands.

He tried again, "I'm sorry Sherlock. I didn't mean to lose control like that. I just… thank you.. for... helping me… wake up."

"You seemed to wake up quite effectively on your own," Sherlock said dryly, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

The corner's of John's mouth quirked into a smile for just a second. Sherlock considered that a small victory.

John took a sip of tea, and then another as the warmth further eased the tension he was still holding on to.

When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. "How long was I asleep?"

"You slept for two hours, twelve minutes before you started to get restless. In total you were asleep and/or dreaming for two hours, fifty eight minutes. I had hoped you would be able to sleep longer," Sherlock finished, with a note of disappointment in his voice.

John managed a small smile. "That's the longest I've slept in two days, no, over two days now."

* * *

"John, if you think you can manage it, I have a couple of questions I need to ask." Sherlock looked at him, his eyes dark and serious in the dim lighting of the room.

John stared back at him and steeled himself for whatever was coming. Having finished eating, they had been sitting in silence for some time. He was impressed Sherlock had been able to wait that long. He gave a brief nod, which Sherlock would have missed had he not been watching John so closely.

"There are a some that are important, like what did that newspaper contain that so disturbed you, and what did that phone call have to do with it all, also what was your most recent dream about, and why were you cry… so upset? But those can wait for a while longer. There is something more important I need to ask."

Sherlock paused, and drew in a breath.

"John, what happened at Baskerville?"

John looked up from his hands to Sherlock's face for a moment, and then shifted his gaze again. He shivered, cold to his core. He knew Sherlock was going to eventually ask that question.

Sitting curled up on the couch with a blanket wrapped around him, that Sherlock had covered him with, he felt it wasn't as important anymore that Sherlock realize the impact of his _experiment_.

He replayed the gestures Sherlock had made all night, the amount of time he spent listening and trying to draw John out and actually _understand_ what he'd gone through.

It hit him that Sherlock **_knew_** that all John's problems stemmed from the lab at Baskerville. Sherlock had wanted to know what had been triggered, the memories behind the dreams and flashbacks. Now, with his more specific questioning, he wanted to know personally what he, Sherlock Holmes, had done wrong.

More amazingly, he didn't want to know, for the sake of the experiment, what he had gotten wrong. He wanted to know what he had done to hurt his friend.

That, more than anything else, gave John the courage to talk about Baskerville with Sherlock, for the first time since that night.

* * *

"After the lights went out and the siren stopped, it took me a few moments for my vision and hearing to approach normal. I knew my pass card wasn't working, but I needed to try something, so I headed for that other door I'd seen the staff leaving through."

"I heard claws clicking on the tile floor, and the sound of bullets hitting the sand around me. I clapped my hand over my mouth and nose to try to cover the sound of my breathing, from the Hound, but also to try to hear where the sniper bullets were hitting, so I could find a sight line to shoot along."

"I had to get under cover. The small portion of my mind that knew I was still in the lab, headed me for the cages and thought one of them would keep me safe from the Hound. The bigger part of my mind thought it was the side of an armored truck I was holing up against."

"When you finally called me, Afghanistan was overlapping the sound of the Hound, and your voice on the phone was the only thing that was grounding me."

John's face was pale and there was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead, as he forced himself to put that night into words for the first time.

"I could hear Murray shouting my name, kids screaming for a medic, the whine of bullets through the air. I could hear the Hound in the lab. I could hear its growling."

Looking at Sherlock, he said, "You asked me what I could see, and I was terrified! I couldn't tell you. I was losing my mind."

"I could see the sun glint off the scope of a sniper rifle. I could see the Hound superimposed over the sand, its red eyes and glowing fur. Then it faded away again and the sand and guns were all I could see. I was sitting, covered with the blood of those kids I couldn't save. I could see the sniper. I saw the bullet coming for me, knowing nothing could stop it, and braced myself for the impact."

John's eyes squeezed shut at the memory. He pushed himself hard against the back of the couch, his hands fisted in the blanket, arms stiff at his side. He struggled to keep his breathing even, reminding himself it was just a memory.

"Suddenly the lights came on, and it wasn't a bullet… it was you touching my shoulder, and asking if I was all right… it pulled me back… you pulled me back. The fear was still overwhelming, but seeing the stark white lab and you, very real, in front of me helped. I was able to ignore the shouted orders, the images of Murray scrambling for his sniper rifle, for the most part. I was able to keep them pushed to my peripheral vision, for lack of a better term."

"My shoulder felt like I had been shot all over again. I was filled with the same searing pain, and my limp was back full force, but I was able to disguise it as being purely unsteady on my feet."

"I followed you out of the lab, and let you take the lead until I was sure I wasn't going to drop to the floor. I had to be sure I could move, for the most part, without the limp being too noticeable," completed John.

"When Dr. Stapleton asked if I was sure I was all right, because I looked peaked, I had to make sure you didn't focus your attention on me. Thankfully, you were too concerned about the sugar at the time, so I didn't need to say anything to distract you."

* * *

_a/n: Sorry, I know, this was a horrible spot to stop, but more will come soon, I promise! :)  
_

_The idea for John's mind providing more than just the Hound to see when he was in Baskerville, is not original to me. I have read other stories on FanFiction that deal with the same idea._

_If you would like to read an extremely good story, go visit Amaya Ramiel over on FanFiction.net and read her story "Afghanistan in Baskerville." It is amazing and gave me great inspiration!_


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

The words that had poured out of John, slowed to a halt.

Sherlock sat utterly still, his eyes closed, the tips of his fingers pressed tightly against his lips. He couldn't believe he had been so caught up in the case, and the sugar theory, that he didn't even register how extreme John's distress was. It was completely unacceptable that he'd allowed his fire for the case to overshadow any other observations.

Replaying the scene when he opened the cage and talked to John, he could see in his mind's eye John's reaction as he stood and bolted out of the cage. It was clear now, that John had been limping. His stance had echoed his military background as he coped with his fear. He held his left shoulder stiffly, even as he shouted at Sherlock, and clearly trailed far behind Sherlock as they headed for Dr. Stapleton's lab.

 

 

* * *

John unclenched and flexed his hands, sore from their grip on the blanket. He rubbed his face and finally forced himself to look at Sherlock. He wasn't sure what to expect, but the lack of movement and reaction was starting to unnerve him.

Narrowing his eyes, in the dim light he could see that Sherlock was actually struggling to keep his composure. John could detect faint tremors running through him, and his breathing was irregular.

"Sherlock?" John tried to get his friend's attention.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock gave a little jerk at John's voice and opened his eyes to look at him.

He observed the tension his friend was holding in. He saw clearly the effects of grief and stress. He understood now the exhaustion evident in John's face since Baskerville. He noted the weight John had lost. He hadn't noticed before, ( _how could he have not noticed?)_ but John's jumpers were hanging too loosely on him.

Now he understood why John had been so distracted and easily irritated the last few months.

_Look at him, Sherlock. This is what you did. This. To the person you call your friend. Some way to treat a friend. All you wanted were the results of your experiment. You didn't take into consideration any of his past, even the bits that were hinted at. He was an army doctor. What part of "army" didn't you get? You are such a fool to think that you could actually have a **friendship** with someone._

He couldn't shut out the voice from his past. It pointed out all his failures, yet again. Each time he'd tried to do something to make **_him_ ** proud of him… He suddenly felt like that little five year old boy he kept locked away deep inside his Mind Palace. He closed his eyes again, for once unable to look at the evidence right in front of him.

 

 

* * *

That little glimpse into Sherlock's eyes was all it took. John could see the stark, raw pain and guilt shining through those gray eyes, before they were shuttered, locking him out. John untangled himself from the blanket, nearly falling in his effort to rush to his friend's side.

He'd never seen Sherlock look like that before. Even the Pool hadn't made Sherlock look that vulnerable and lost.

Forgetting about his own pain, he knew he had to try to help his friend with his.

"Sherlock, look at me."

 

 

* * *

Sherlock jumped, finding John's voice so close to him and reflexively opened his eyes. John had pushed aside the plates and mugs, clearing himself a place on the edge of the coffee table right in front of him. He was slightly lower, allowing him to look right up into Sherlock's face, even when he tried to duck his head to avoid John's gaze.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock just shook his head slightly, pressing his lips tightly together, closing his eyes again, in an attempt to shut out the world. No, the _pain_ he'd caused.

Covering his face with his hands, he tried to bring his emotions back under control. This was more than a bit Not Good. He couldn't swallow past the strange thickness in his throat. His trembling intensified as he started to lock down the emotions that kept evading his grasp. They flew through the rooms in his Mind Palace and were going to wreck havoc with the information so carefully stored there.

He sensed John draw closer, and then his hands wrapped around his wrists, pulling his hands down, away from his face. He resisted for a moment, before giving up the fight, his arms going limp as he shuddered again.

John let go of his wrists and slid his hands down to hold Sherlock's long, slender ones between his own. He stilled their shaking, and squeezed them to get Sherlock's attention.

"Sherlock. Please, look at me."

Bracing himself for the accusations and anger that were coming, Sherlock flicked his eyes over John's face before staring at their hands in his lap.

His brain took a moment to process what he'd just seen.

Startled, he looked again. John was still disheveled from the nightmare, still filled with anxiety, and yes, pain too, over recounting his experiences, _but_ his warm eyes were filled with compassion and concern for **_him._**

Sherlock was unable to understand or even begin to process _why_ John would be looking at _him_ like that. He started to back his chair away, almost in a panic, and pull his hands from John's grip. He froze again when John spoke with a strange, steely determination.

"Don't you _dare_."

"What?" he nearly whispered, ashamed at how unsteady his voice came out.

"Don't you dare retreat from me. Don't close me out now," John warned.

"But I…"

"No. You think that because you made a mistake, you aren't a good friend. That you can't have friends because you can't maintain a good relationship with anyone."

"Well, I surely…."

"Stop. I'm not done yet. Yes, I was mad at you. Yes, I blamed you at first when I started having the nightmares and flashbacks after Baskerville. Yes, I doubted our friendship, afraid that maybe I had misplaced my trust, and that you were just using me all along because I was convenient."

John saw Sherlock's shoulders droop.

"But, if tonight has shown me anything at all, it's shown me that you care." John gave a ghost of a laugh at Sherlock's weak attempt to show offense at that.

"If you didn't, you wouldn't have spent hours getting me to talk, feeding me, or watching over me as I slept. No one does that for anyone unless they consider them a friend."

Sherlock tried again. "But you're not... You're dealing with these horrors I can only imagine and it's all my fa…" He stuttered to a stop when he saw the dark look on John's face.

 

 

* * *

As Sherlock tried to deny John's words and pull the blame on himself, John could feel his anger rising. All the frustration of not being able to control his own mind, fueled his anger even more.

_If he thinks that he's going to get away with assuming all the guilt for this, he has another thing coming! Sociopath, my…. He's a bloody idiot! He hasn't listened to a single word I've just said to him. He's terrified. Good grief, I'm terrified too. But if he thinks…._

"Damn it, Sherlock!" he shouted, dropping Sherlock's hands as he jumped to his feet.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock jumped at his outburst. Then he braced himself again. _Ah. Here is the anger I knew was coming._

"You are going to listen to me and actually hear me this time! You are the most insufferable git I know! Do you know what would have happened if you had told me what you wanted to do at Baskerville?" John questioned.

Sherlock shook his head mutely in the face of John's wrath. He held his breath waiting for him to say that he would have decked him, left, moved out. But nothing could have prepared him for John's next declaration.

"I would have gladly eaten the damn sugar, and I would have agreed to your experiment!" Sherlock blinked at him, nonplussed.

"I would have let you use the blasted lights and siren to disorient me. I would have trusted you to stop if it got too bad, and I would have told you right away about starting to see things from Afghanistan. Because I **trust** you."

 _Wait. What?_ Sherlock gasped and blinked at John, seeing black spots dancing across his field of vision. He suddenly realized that breathing was rather important, not so boring after all.

John barked, in a no nonsense tone, "You don't believe me? Hell, Mycroft knew I trusted you before I knew it myself!"

John started pacing the room, Sherlock turning in his chair, his eyes wide, following him back and forth as he waved his arms for emphasis.

"I trusted you enough to kill for you. I trusted you to find us in the tunnel with General Shan. I trusted you through all those bloody pips. I trusted you would come for me at the pool and get us out of there."

Before Sherlock could get a word in edgewise, John continued, on a roll now.

"I trusted you enough in the last couple of days, that I didn't run away when all this crap hit me again. And I trusted you enough to tell you what happened to me in Afghanistan – to relive it all again – so you could have a frame of reference for the news that has caused all this."

"You didn't cause this," John said. "My experiences in Afghanistan did. My bloody mind, that can't seem to cope, did. This sodding PTSD, that can't seem to leave me alone, did."

When John heard Sherlock take a breath to start to talk, he rounded on him. He planted himself firmly in front of Sherlock with his arms crossed. The heat of his anger cooling, he was still determined to get his point across.

"You. Did. Not. Do. This. You are not responsible for my experiences. The blasted drug triggered the flashbacks and dreams." He sat back down on the edge of the coffee table knee to knee with Sherlock, breathing heavily from his exertions.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock blinked at John owlishly. "How did you know what I was thinking? I mean, what… You couldn't have possibly… I…"

"Come now, Sherlock," John scolded, gently. "You think I don't know you well enough after all this time? As soon as I looked at you, I knew you were blaming yourself. As soon as you tried to back away, I knew you were going to try to put space between us."

"Just like you did after The Pool," he continued. "You tried to back away then too, because you were so deathly afraid that you were going to make a mistake that would hurt me or cost me my life. You couldn't bear that thought, so you tried to distance yourself, convince yourself you didn't care, or that I would be better off without you."

John almost laughed at the look on Sherlock's face.

"I made the mistake back then of letting you back away and distance yourself for weeks before confronting you. If you think I am going to sit back and let you do that again, you're an idiot."

There was a long pause in the room, as one tried to gather his thoughts and the other let his words sink in.

John leaned in closer to Sherlock to make sure he was looking directly at him.

"I have one more thing to say about this. I forgive you. You don't need to say anything, do anything, apologize or try to 'make things right' between us. There is no need. I forgave you a while ago, but sometimes you need to hear the words. I forgive you, so now, do me one small favor.”

“Forgive yourself."

Sherlock stared at John in silent amazement.

_This man is the most extraordinary person I have ever met. He has been through and seen so much, yet he can sit here and yell at me for blaming myself. Then he goes and forgives me so freely. I don't understand him._

_Maybe, I never will._

John watched Sherlock's face slowly soften from its harsh lines of self-judgment. His eyes searched Sherlock's intently. Satisfied with what he saw, he nodded.

 

 

* * *

Sighing and suppressing a groan, John leaned forward a bit, and pushed himself to his feet. As he passed behind Sherlock, he laid his hand briefly on his friend's shoulder and gave a quick squeeze. He snagged the blanket, all tangled in a heap on the floor, and shuffled over to the fire. Dropping the blanket in his chair on the way, he stiffly lowered himself to the floor and put some more fuel on the fire.

Stirring the fire with the poker, he watched the room light up as the crackling and popping of the fire warmed it as much as the heat from it did. Memories of other times around a fire, in the Afghan desert, surrounded by brothers he'd worked with and fought with and defended, danced in front of his eyes.

The warmth felt so good on his face, he didn't realize how chilled he was until Sherlock leaned over him, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. John turned slightly and flashed Sherlock a grateful look.

 

 

* * *

Sherlock perched on his chair, his knees drawn up to his chest. He took the moment of peace to study John's face lit by the warmth of the fire.

Even after all the horrors that John had recounted through evening, and well into the night, his face was the most open and calm he'd seen it in months. It still bore the marks of the fear, pain and depression, but there was a stronger set to his jaw. His eyes looked old and tired, but not as haunted and despairing as they had earlier.

John stirred under his gaze, muttering something unintelligible under his breath. He stood, trying to stretch out the stiffness in his shoulder and leg. Swiping the newspaper off the side table, he settled into his chair.

"Um, John," Sherlock paused, unsure of how to voice his thoughts. "Thank you for… that. You are far more perceptive than I give you credit for."

John smiled a bit as he laid his hand on the article in front of him.

"Thank _you_ for answering your brother's texts when you didn't know how to approach me. Though," he continued thoughtfully, ignoring Sherlock's look of shock, "I'm not sure how someone who believes caring is a disadvantage would be able to give you advice."

"But how did you know… I texted him? What…"

John looked at him knowingly. "You said it yourself. I'm more perceptive than you give me credit for. Even in the midst of all this, I can still observe. Honestly. After all this time, you think that I don't pay attention to your lessons?"

Sherlock fondly gazed at the top of John's head, as it bent over the paper in his lap. John glanced up, catching his look. Sherlock's face lit up with a genuine smile, and John couldn't help but respond with one of his own.

"Are you ready to tell me about the article now?" Sherlock asked, motioning to the paper on John's lap.

John sighed and nodded. He ghosted his fingers across the article, as if touching the names could make them come to life.

 

 

* * *

_a/n: Yes, I know... that's where I left it. Hope it didn't feel too out of character, especially for Sherlock. I didn't make him say too much, as he wouldn't willingly "talk" about his emotions, but we might be able to hear what he was thinking._

_Read and review!_

_Blessings_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here's the chapter you've all been waiting for... the article and phone call that started this all out! :)

 

 

* * *

"I know it has taken me a long time to get back around to this article, and why that and the phone call disturbed me so much." John sighed again, knowing he couldn't put it off any longer.

Not that sharing his background had really been intentional delays, though. He knew the only way Sherlock was going to have a chance at experiencing anything like empathy, was if he had a good idea of what John had gone through.

Sherlock had managed to curb his impatience for a record length of time. John figured he'd better not press his luck.

Glancing over, he saw Sherlock was still waiting, reclining in his chair, his long legs stretched out towards the fire.

He rested his chin lightly on the tips of his fingers, looking back up at John through his lowered lids. His brow furrowed slightly over his piercing grey eyes, as he observed his friend. He deduced, quite correctly, that as hard as the other bits and pieces of his past had been, this was extremely difficult for John to explain.

There was a very raw, open, and recent grief in John's eyes, and marking his face. It was a testament to what had happened that night, that John was willing to let him see it.

"This article, um, these men…" John stopped and cleared his throat before trying again.

"As I skimmed through the paper the other morning, I came across this article. It said that a unit, out on maneuvers, had been ambushed by a group of insurgents. They were pinned down by heavy gunfire, when snipers began picking them off. The article says they managed to get an S.O.S. out before their radio was hit."

"The article released a few names, but not all of them, as family members had yet to be notified." John swallowed around the lump in his throat before he said, "It was enough for me to realize… to realize… that…" He stopped again, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths to try to calm himself.

Sherlock quietly finished his sentence. "It was your unit. The special ops team you were in before you came home." His breath hissed in through his teeth at John's abrupt nod.

He thought back to the article. Now that he knew more about John's unit, he was able to put it together.

Four men had been killed, three injured, one of them critically, and two were MIA. Captain Evans, who had helped save John's life, was one of the ones listed as deceased. Roberts had been injured, but a Wilkinson and, most importantly Murray, were the ones listed as MIA.

Evans, Roberts, and Bill Murray. Those were the names Sherlock hadn't been able to track down. With a special ops team, they would have kept those names well covered. Only with knowing more of John's story had he recognized them.

"Murray is MIA, John?"

John's eyes had opened while Sherlock had been thinking. He was staring blindly down at the paper on his lap, his hand unconsciously rubbing his right leg.

"Yes. It happened about a week ago. The call I got was from the former commander of my team, Colonel Harrison. He'd been promoted, was home on a short leave, waiting to get connected with his new command. He was debriefed on what happened. He was the one I talked to on the phone, and then later met."

Sherlock hesitated before he asked, "Was he able to tell you any more than the article?"

The paper slid off John's lap unheeded, as he leaned his head against the back of his chair. His left hand clenched into a fist, as he struggled for control. His eyes stared unseeingly through Sherlock.

"He said they were sent out to supposedly secure an area from insurgents. In reality they were going in to collect information from a couple of informants. A couple went in, blended as civilians; someone with medical knowledge would be welcomed, so that was Murray."

"We'd done it before. Usually Murray and I were the ones to go in. We were snipers. We were covert ops. We were trained in the customs and culture, the language and how to blend in."

Sherlock stared at John blankly, as he processed this information. "That's why you are so fluent in Dari and Pashto," he said suddenly.

John continued, almost as if he hadn't heard him. His voice was almost a monotone. Sherlock slid to the edge of his chair, leaning forward to catch his words.

"It should have been and easy in, easy out job. Something went wrong. No one is sure what, as Murray and Wilkinson where the only ones directly in town. They did reconnect with the unit, but everyone felt a strain and decided to clear out early. They had the distinct impression that though they all had blended into the surrounding area, they were being watched."

"Wouldn't that many men be noticeable?" Sherlock asked.

"Not particularly," John replied, able to talk about the _technical_ details. "Two men leaving the village wouldn't be suspicious, and a larger group would be left alone. But, they weren't this time. They were right that someone was watching them, and they walked into an ambush."

"Colonel Harrison said that most of the information came off of one of the injured, Roberts. When the other two recover enough to tell their part, we may get a clearer picture."

"They didn't have good protection, were being picked off one by one, though they were doing damage too, it wasn't enough. Murray and Wilkinson broke away to try to get a better angle and picked off a good number of them. Just as support finally came in, there was a last burst of gunfire and they were captured before they could make it back to the unit."

"The rescue team coming in had to take care of those they could. They had to lift off to get the wounded back to safety."

"They… they have men on the ground, searching. Only because the rescue team is positive they were taken alive… but with no word…" John's voice faded to a whisper at the end.

"John, if they were taken alive…" Sherlock started.

John looked away, his face almost grey in the faint light of dawn starting to peek around the curtains.

"The insurgents will keep them alive only as long as they think they have information that is important or useful. Or, if they think they are important enough to use as hostages, or if they have skills the insurgents need."

John shuddered, not wanting to think about the things Murray would be enduring right now, if he were still alive and in their hands.

At Sherlock's look, he confirmed, "They will do anything to get the information out of you. If you can hold out long enough, you might be lucky enough to be rescued, but that's only if you can withstand the 'punishment' they give for not saying anything."

"One more thing, Sherlock."

He immediately moved to kneel by John's chair when he saw the expression on his face.

John struggled to get the words out. "On Saturday, there is…. I have to go… Captain Evans. Doctor James Evans. His funeral. I need to be there. Colonel Harrison told… told me about it… and I – I…"

Suddenly, John pushed himself to his feet, taking a couple of steps away from his chair. Without warning, his right knee wavered, then buckled underneath him. Off balance, with nothing to grab on to, John dropped, his hands outstretched to catch himself.

Sherlock leaped to his feet and was next to John in an instant. He barely caught him in time, staggering under his weight. Breaking his fall, he eased the rest of the way to the floor with him.

The physical pain finally shredded John's tenuous control of his already frayed emotions. Hot tears fell, unchecked down John's face, onto Sherlock's arm still wrapped around his chest.

"Sherlock," he whispered, "I have to go. I need… I need to tell his wife, and his daughter, what he did. They need to know, how many lives he saved. I… have to tell them. If he hadn't gotten to me when he did, I would have bled out, right there."

His trembling intensified. "But all I can think about is Murray… where he is, what he's going through… if they're going to find him."

_What condition will he be in if they **do** find him alive? Will the pain have driven him out of his mind? How badly will they have tortured him? Will he even be able to recognize friends and family?_

Gasping with the effort to calm down, John pulled away a bit. Sherlock let him, watching him as he wiped at his face. Concerned, he noted John's grimace as he slowly straightened his right knee. Curling up his left leg, he wrapped his arms around it, resting for a moment. Then he turned his face to look at Sherlock.

His eyes, bright with unshed tears, pinned Sherlock in his place. He sat frozen, unable to decipher the emotions in the depths of those dark blue eyes.

Though his voice still quivered and cracked, John said, "I don't want to go. I have to. But, I don't…" A few more tears slipped, unnoticed, down his face.

He heaved a sigh and continued, determined to ask his question.

"I don't want to go alone. Sherlock, will you go with me?"

Sherlock paused a beat, realizing John was completely serious. He ran a hand through his hair, looking at him in confusion.

"You want _me_ to go with you?"

John nodded. Sherlock clambered to his feet as he searched for something to say. He reached down to John, holding out his hand to help him up.

John hesitated, hoping for an immediate answer. When he could see that Sherlock wasn't sure what to say or do, he held his hand up and gripped Sherlock's

Sherlock pulled him to his feet. Turning John toward the door, he stayed by his side, wrapping an arm around his waist. As John limped heavily toward the stairs, Sherlock pulled John's right arm across his shoulders, supporting more of his weight.

 

 

* * *

By the time they got to the landing outside John's door, Sherlock was practically carrying him. He lowered John gently to the bed until he was sitting on the edge. He flipped the sheets and blanket back, and as John lay down, covered him back up. He turned away to close the curtains against the early morning sun.

Turning back to the bed, he saw John had curled around a pillow, his back to the room, on the far side of his bed.

Sherlock sighed. He wished he was better at this sort of thing. He sat down gingerly on the edge of the bed.

"John, do you really want me to come?"

John's voice was muffled by the pillow. "I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't..."

Sherlock grimaced. "I don't know how much good I would possibly be able to do there. I'm not usually asked to go to social functions. Especially weddings and funerals, because they are so full of sentiment. I will say something wrong and embarrass you."

He thought for a moment. "Wouldn't Lestrade be a better person to ask?"

"You are the one I told all this to," John replied, still talking into the pillow. "You're my best friend. You're the one I want... need... there."

Sherlock was a bit taken aback. John's reply wasn't exactly what he'd expected.

His brow furrowed in thought, Sherlock took a pillow, and stuck it between his back and the headboard, stretching his legs out on top of the covers. He slid his phone out of the pocket of his dressing gown, where he'd slipped it before they came upstairs. As he turned it on again, John rolled over to face him. Aware of John's stare he glanced up. He raised an eyebrow at John's puzzled, and slightly concerned, look.

Answering John's obvious question he said , "What? You need to sleep. You're in pain. The couch is too hard. You'll be more comfortable in your own bed. I have some research to do. Which I can do here. Besides, then I will be close, if you… um… have a… well, you know… if you need something." He stumbled to a halt under John's gaze, quickly turning his attention back to the phone.

Peering at him out of the corner of his eye, he could see the gratitude in John's eyes as he settled under the covers. He heaved a sigh, glad that he didn't have to try to explain any further, something that he couldn't yet put into words.

Then, John's raised his head slightly from the pillow reaching his arm behind his back. As John pulled his hand out, Sherlock saw it held his gun. John's knuckles were nearly white, his grip on it was so tight, as he offered it to Sherlock.

Sherlock held out his hand under John's, waiting patiently. Slowly John exhaled, and let Sherlock take it from him, as his grip loosened.

"If I wake up, and have that on me. With you here… I might not know where I am. I don't want to hurt you."

"I know, John. It will be right here," he said, as he laid it on the side table. "As will I," he finished.

John fell onto his back on the pillows, rubbing at his forehead with shaking fingers. Sherlock reached out and caught his hand, lowering them to the blankets, giving his fingers a quick squeeze before letting go.

"Now. Go to sleep" Sherlock said firmly.

John frowned a bit at being ordered around, but only mumbled something unintelligible into the pillow as he rolled onto his side facing his friend. Sherlock's mouth curved in a gentle smile.

"To answer your earlier question, of course I'll go with you, John," he murmured quietly, as he tugged the blankets up around John's shoulders. There was no response from John, other than him burrowing further under the covers.

The room settled into silence. Sherlock shifted slightly to get comfortable. He had many things to file away in John's room in his Mind Palace.

Sherlock scrolled through his text messages, ignoring or deleting most of them.

One stood out.

**_Congratulations, brother dear. You seem to have managed, after all._ **

**_MH_ **

Sherlock rolled his eyes and deleted it as well, trying not to huff out loud. John moved a bit next to him.

He held still, hoping John hadn't woken.

John's arm crept out from under the blankets, and his hand rested lightly on Sherlock's arm for a moment.

"Thanks, Sherlock," he whispered before his hand slipped back down to the mattress.

"You're welcome, John."

John's face slowly relaxed, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion from the past few days.

Peace descended in the room, as Sherlock, once again, settled in to watch over his friend while he slept.

 

 

* * *

_a/n: There you are! Hope you enjoyed! I was going to do an epilogue of sorts to this, but the characters seemed to want to end here._

_Please do read and review!_

_Blessings, hjohn302_


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